


Flu Season

by QueerCannibal



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: After the Fall, Angst, Fluff, Fluffy, Gift Fic, Hannibal Lecter - Freeform, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is a Cannibal, M/M, Murder Husbands, No active Cannibalism, No murder, One-Shot, Post S3, Sick Will, Snow, Will Graham - Freeform, Will Loves Hannibal, Will has the flu, Winter, angsty will, scene based on an existing roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 12:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13763949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerCannibal/pseuds/QueerCannibal
Summary: A (late) Valentine's day one-shot requested by a Roleplay partner---Will wakes up sick, and Hannibal has to deal with him.---Un-beta'd cause I'm an animal.





	Flu Season

Flu Season

A Hannigram one-shot for AviatorCannibal

\---

 

                The early mornings in the Northern California mountains were not entirely unfamiliar to Hannibal—but unlike many of his early memories of deep snows—the winters here were beautiful, and filled with warm memories in the making.

The snow had been falling on and off for weeks, and was deep and powdery, lying in a thick coat over everything as far as the eye could see.

                The first thing that Hannibal consciously became aware of as he began to wake was the _click click click_ of the electric wall heater trying to light and turn on—it was beaten by the central heating system that turned on with a rumble and a low hiss as warm hair filtered through the vents of the house—it was soon followed by the loud thunderous sound of the electric heater.

                The house was old—the insulation lacking, and the thick double pane windows only protecting from _some_ of the cold—and since they only paid for the water and electricity, there was no reason _not_ to use both heating systems to their full advantage.

                The second thing that Hannibal became aware of was the heat wafting against his back, and the salty—and oddly sour—smell of sweat. Opening his eyes to the pale blue light of the room Hannibal rolled over to face the other man; Will was curled under the blankets, shivering violently.

“Will?” Hannibal scooted closer to the other man—his stomach almost seared from the damp heat as he came into contact with the other’s sweat slicked back. It was obvious from smell alone that Will was suffering from a high fever—pressing the tender inside of his wrist against the younger man’s forehead only confirmed that it was not so high as to be dangerous. “Will?” Hannibal pressed his hand against the other man’s shoulder, giving him a slight shake to rouse him.

Will woke with a flutter of his eyelashes and a soft uncomfortable moan as he nuzzled his face deeper into his pillow, gasping slightly as he shifted and his body protested the movement.

                “Oh _God_ ,” Will groaned, voice thick and rusty with sleep, “I feel awful.”

                “What do you feel?” Hannibal asked, running a firm soothing stroke along the other man’s side, feeling the fevered tremble against his skin.  
                “Cold, my head hurts, and I can’t tell if I’m going to be sick or not.” Will groaned, shifting and rolling with a wince and an unhappy sound so he could face Hannibal, curling up against the other man’s skin. “You’re warm.” He moaned as Hannibal held him, letting him press against his chest.

                “You might have caught the flu that’s been going around, Will.” Hannibal stated, resting his head against the pillows as he looked down at the shivering man against him. “These things spread so quickly in the dry cold air; do you have a bone ache?” Will shook his head, and Hannibal lightly ran his hand over the soft bristles of his shaved scalp; Will’s hair had grown several inches, and was almost due for another shave—not that Hannibal minded the length, or the stubble that Will woke with every other morning.

                “Stay in bed, I’ll turn the heat up and then take your temperature.” Hannibal gave the other man another light pat before sliding out of bed, tucking the smaller man in with their blankets, before stepping out into the hallway; the draft from the cracked bathroom door hit Hannibal’s naked back and sent a chill up his spine, but he turned the thermostat up from 65F to 70F, then stepped out into the open dining room, crossing to the piano and leaning over it so he could fiddle with the thermostat connected to the electric heater.

                Once the heat was up, Hannibal stepped into the bathroom and pulled open the drawer where they kept their first aid stuff; he pulled out their glass thermometer, as well as a dampening a wash cloth in the sink before he left the bathroom. When he reentered the bedroom he found Will lying on his back with the blanket pulled up around his chin, blinking tiredly at Hannibal.

                “Under your tongue.” Hannibal said as he uncapped and shook out the thermometer, sticking it between the other man’s lips. Will held it down obediently and only winced a little when Hannibal set the folded wet wash cloth across his forehead. “It’s still snowing out,” Hannibal said as he watched the time on the bedside clock, “the track you dug from the porch all the way out to the street is buried again. Even if you feel better on Monday, you may have to call into the garage. It just might not be feasible.”

Will frowned when Hannibal removed the thermometer, and shook his head ever so slightly—careful not to dislodge the washcloth.

                “I can’t do that, we need both checks Hannibal. If I don’t go into the garage it’ll be a mark against me, can’t afford that.”

                “We can make do with the money I’m bringing in. The online tutoring will bring in enough for now.” Hannibal assured as he studied the thermometer. “101F, you’re a very sick boy.” Hannibal slid the glass thermometer back into its small case. “Try and sleep. I’ll get you water and tea.”

                “Hannibal…” Will muttered as the other man exited the room, pressing his head back against the pillows and gazing up at the ceiling blearily. He could hear the other man moving around the kitchen—hear the squeak of the old linoleum beneath Hannibal’s feet, the sound of the fridge opening and closing, the beep of the microwave.

He felt weak, hot and cold at the same time, and his stomach churned unpleasantly anytime he moved, but he didn’t think he was going to be sick. His bowels weren’t unhappy, and his esophagus didn’t burn, so if he did have the flu, it was just a chill that had settled in him—though he was sure aches would soon follow. “Hannibal?” Will blinked up to find the other man beside the bed, setting a bottle of water, and a mug of steaming tea on the bedside table—he must have dozed, he hadn’t heard the man enter.

                “Yes Will?”

                “What… what are you….” Hannibal gently shushed him, petting his head as he stooped over the edge of the bed.

                “It’s alright Will, just try and rest, get some sleep. It will help you get better. Later, when it’s a touch warmer, I’ll help you shower, clean off the sweat, chase away some of the chill.” Hannibal promised stroking Will’s hair till the smaller man fell back into a light fever induced doze.

 

                While Will slept, Hannibal dressed in a sweater and thick socks and his pajama pants, went about with his morning routine. He fixed himself a simple breakfast—plane toast with an egg—and ate it in the kitchen; when he sat in the old armchair that they hadn’t moved yet, he could see the end of their bed in the bedroom through the kitchen and hall doorways.

After his breakfast, he cleaned up the kitchen, and then gathered up the trash. Trash went out on Monday, and he knew at some point before then he’d have to get the can and the trash to the road—for the time being however, he just piled the trash in the laundry room.

Once he’d finished cleaning and straightening up, Hannibal worked on his exercises; once he’d been able to remove the cast and could put weight on his injured leg, he’d started exercises and physical therapies. It was a hard process, and he was far from perfect—he doubted the leg would ever be the same, it had taken far too much damage over the last handful of years—but he was showing improvement. He stretched the leg, and worked on adding more and more weight to it during each session. He was sure within the month he’d be able to go about without the ace bandage wrapped around it.

 

Finished with everything Hannibal returned to the bedroom to check on his husband. Will—who’d fallen back to sleep—trembled and shivered under their covers, sweat slicked his scalp, and fever wrinkling his brow. He mumbled and muttered in his sleep as Hannibal settled on the edge of the bed and lightly stroked his knuckles down his cheek. At one point he even opened his eyes—though Hannibal could tell from the foggy glazed look, he wasn’t truly awake—and looked pleadingly at Hannibal.

“ _They’re coming_ , they’re coming, and they’re going to _get_ me.” Will mumbled, shivering more violently.

“Whose coming Will?” Hannibal asked as he gently adjusted the blanket.

“N-na, _nazi zombies_.” Will mumbled fretting and rolling onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow, and moaning in his sleep. Hannibal picked up the washcloth and reset it against the side of Will’s head.

Once Hannibal was sure Will had settled, he stood and grabbed a pair of his trousers, changing out of his pajama bottoms, and then grabbing his coat, gloves, and boots. Will had purchased him a knit hat from the larger bank in the town—something about a food drive charity—and Hannibal slipped the soft blue-knitted cap over his hair before he left the bedroom.

 

The snow had lightened a little when Hannibal stepped out onto the porch—which was easy enough to clear off thanks to the back of rock salt Will had dumped on the concrete steps the previous day—and Hannibal walked out into it with only some minor issue. He grabbed the shovel, and got to work; Will had been the one doing most of the shoveling, claiming that so long as he soaked his shoulder after, his injuries—which were healing faster than Hannibal’s leg—didn’t ache to bad. Hannibal knew Will enjoyed the physical labor, and felt accomplished when he’d completed a task, but boy was it a task.

It took Hannibal nearly an hour to dig out the pathway from their porch to their jeep, where he leaned against it sweating and panting; his strength had been considerably depleted from his time incarcerated in Baltimore, and the current injuries didn’t help matters. But even so, he took only a moment to catch his breath before he went back to work.

\---

                When Will came to, he called for Hannibal, momentarily forgetting where and when he was. In a dazed panic Will jolted out of bed—collapsing in a tangle of blankets with a groan—before hobbling out of the bedroom and through the house.

                “Hannibal?” He wheezed as he wrapped the blanket back around his shoulders, the King sized spread trailing behind him as he padded across the carpeted dining room and into the living room. “Hannibal?” His head spun and he had to take a seat on the piano bench for several moments till the room stopped spinning, and his stomach settled.

As he sat, collecting himself, the distant sound of scraping and thudding reached him, and he frowned as he stared at the front door; he gazed at the grain of the wood for a long time before he got to his feet again and hobbled towards it.

                Stepping out onto the porch, Will barely noticed the cold as he stepped barefoot onto the salty-slushy concrete steps. He spotted Hannibal—bundled up as he was—shoveling several paces beyond the Jeep and towards the tree line.

                “Hannibal.” He called out, his voice weak. He climbed down to the third step, his toes buried in snow, and called again. Finally hearing him, Hannibal stopped in his shoveling and turned to look back towards the house.

                “Will?” He was mildly surprised, but he turned back around fully and pointed back towards the house. “Go back inside Will.” He said, but Will just shook his head. “You shouldn’t be out here in your condition, go back inside where it’s warm.” Hannibal ordered voice a little sterner. But again Will just shook his head, and stepped off the porch into the snow.

Hannibal—dropping the shovel—met Will before he could get to far from the porch, grabbing him and trying to usher him back, but Will shook his head and made a broken sound.

                “I thought I was alone.” He croaked. “I thought I was alone, and you were back in Baltimore, locked up, and I couldn’t see you.” Will shuddered, and Hannibal wrapped an arm around the smaller man and half dragged half lead him back up the steps and into the house; not minding the snow he tracked in with him, Hannibal lead Will to the sofa and sat him down.

                “Will,”

                “I thought I’d never see you again.” Will looked like he was on the verge of tears, and Hannibal tugged off his gloves, and knelt down—wincing slightly at the ache in his leg—and gently grabbed the smaller man’s face.

                “It’s alright Will, I’m here. We’re both here, in California, together. You got us here, remember? I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.” Hannibal assured calmly, knowing that it was the fever talking; Will’s skin still burned, and sweat beaded on his brow.

                “Stay with me, please, don’t leave me.” Will sniffed and shrugged his arms out of the blanket to grip at Hannibal’s coat. “Please, I don’t want to be alone.”

Hannibal shushed him, and standing removed his coat. Tossing it aside, he settled beside the smaller man, and pulled him against his side; wrapping Will back up, Hannibal lightly petted his hair.

                “It’s okay Will, I’ll stay with you. I won’t go anywhere.”

Will pressed a little firmer against Hannibal’s side and sniffed again, staring at the ashy grate of the iron fireplace across from the sofa.

                “You promise?”

                “I promise.”

                “And you always keep your promises.” Will pointed out, sounding on the verge of sleep again. Hannibal’s mouth curled into a smile, and he leaned his chin against Will’s head.

                “I always keep my promises.”

 

Author’s Note: So, this probably ended up WAY more fluffy than you wanted—but I mean… there’s SOME angst… if you squint… in Will’s general direction. ^^; I’m sorry if it isn’t exactly what you were hoping for, but the day after you requested it, I woke up with THIS literal scenario in my head and it wouldn’t leave me alone.

Also, funny story! When I was in high school (may have been 14 or 15) I woke up in the middle of summer (so it was like 70F at night) in my grandmother’s bed, woke her up, and complained that I was freezing. I was so out of it, I had 102F fever, I had her turn on the heating blanket, and turn the heat up, AT LIKE THREE IN THE MORNING!!! She called the ER nurse to see if I should be brought in or what. And the entire time she’s on the phone, I’m lying in her bed under THREE blankets, crying about zombie vampire nazi’s (think Nazis from Hellsing Ultimate) coming after me. Yeah. Bad fever.

So, anyway, that’s why Will said the thing about zombie nazi’s.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
